Alibi Junior High (8 page)

Frank and I stand together, surveying the fallen, groaning bodies around us. He turns to me. There’s an expression of shock and confusion stretched tightly across his face.

“What happened?”

I don’t know what to say. I just stand there.

“Is anyone hurt?”

I look at the bodies lying around us. Something about the way they’re scattered on the floor reminds me of the café bombing. I can almost smell the explosives, the charred flesh, and the fear and desperation that hung in the air that morning.

If only the waitress hadn’t winked at me. It’s the memory of that last sweet act that keeps constantly slicing its way into my head. It’s so unbelievably sharp. I’m powerless to stop it when it chooses to pierce its way into the present.

Frank shakes my shoulder; panic in his voice as he asks, “Should I get the nurse?”

I glance around. “No.”

“I think you might have really hurt someone.”

I turn to Frank. Even though he didn’t do anything wrong I can hear the anger creeping into my voice. “Nobody’s hurt badly. They’re just stunned. If I wanted to really hurt someone I would have.”

He takes a few steps backward; I see the fear in his eyes. “What
are
you?”

I watch Frank. He moves until his back is against the lockers.

What am I?

What, not who—maybe that’s a question I should be asking myself, too. What am I?

I can feel
the steady march of impending doom. That sensation that everything’s about to change drastically for the worse and you’re completely powerless to prevent it. Like when you bump the edge of a table and you can’t do anything except watch as the expensive vase at the other end tumbles to the floor.

Mrs. Richardson is mangling Spanish again. What else is new? I can’t even concentrate enough to criticize her. I can feel the wheels of the discipline machine moving, building up speed, and heading in my direction. I know it will come. How it will come is the question.

The loudspeaker crackles to life and Mrs. Owens’s shrill, slightly hysterical voice can be heard angrily shouting through
out the whole school. “If Cody Saron is in the building, have him report to my office immediately! And I mean immediately!”

The machine has arrived.

Everyone in the class falls silent and turns their attention to me. It’s obvious nobody’s ever been called to the office quite like this before. I’ve suddenly become the most interesting student to ever walk through the front door.

Mrs. Richardson looks at me over her glasses and addresses me in an overly calm and composed manner. “Cody, I think Mrs. Owens would like to see you in her office.”

There’s a slight smile tugging at her lips.

I slowly rise to my feet, slip my books into my backpack, and ignore the snickers around me. A new battle begins.

The kids around me start whispering, “What did you do?” and “
Oooh
…you’re in so much trouble,” and other such garbage. I ignore them.

I’m just about out of the classroom when the door opens and in marches Steroid Steve, with his attitude, self-inflated chest, and ego. “I’m supposed to escort Cody Saron to the office.”

Figures. They don’t even trust me to find my own way to the office.

Steroid Steve and I walk together in the long, empty hall. His rubber-soled shoes squeak loudly on the tile floor. I feel like I’m walking with a cartoon character. If I weren’t so worried about what was going to happen to me, I’d laugh.

The few people we encounter stare at me like I’m a rock star…or an ax-murderer. I’ve never been either, so I’m not sure.

Steve stops abruptly and glares at me. He lifts his chin. “You know something? I knew you were trouble the very first moment I saw you. Now I hear you hurt six kids. Punks like you should be kept in cages, not schools.”

I meet his eyes and glare right back at him. I could have saved myself a whole lot of aggravation if I had just laid him out on the floor that first day of school. It’s almost as if he reads my mind; something in his eyes changes and he takes a step backward.

At first I’m surprised, then I shake my head in disgust. I realize what I had always suspected: he’s nothing but a paper tiger. I hope the school never has to truly depend upon him for protection.

We walk the remainder of the way to the office in silence. He opens the door for me and when I pass him he mutters, “I hope they kick your butt outta school.”

Mrs. Owens is waiting for me. Her face looks calm but it’s clear there’s a dangerous current flowing just below its serene surface. I guess she’s regained her composure after that bizarre loudspeaker rant.

She nods at me. “Mr. Saron.”

I nod back. “Mrs. Owens.”

“Please step into my office.”

I follow her into the main engine of the machine, with its
full bookshelves, drawn blinds, and comfortable leather chairs. I close the door behind me, glance at the Yankees pennant, and sink into my now-familiar seat; it once again hisses my arrival. Today, instead of a defective whoopee cushion, the hissing reminds me of an angry snake. I can practically feel it wrapping its long, thick body around me.

Mrs. Owens sits behind her highly polished desk; her manicured hands folded together on its shiny surface. She holds me in an icy stare that reveals little beyond contempt. We sit in a thick silence as I wait for her to say something.

She clears her throat. “Mr. Saron, upon our first meeting I thought I made our school’s zero-tolerance for violence policy quite clear. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You do understand what zero means, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why don’t you tell me what zero means.”

“It means nothing at all.”

“That’s right. So if we have a policy of zero tolerance when it comes to acts of violence, what do you suppose
that
means?”

“It means what it means.”

She doesn’t say anything. We slip back into that thick fog of silence. I become aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the room. In the outer office, I hear the muffled voices of people talking and laughing.

Finally she says, “I want to hear
your
definition of zero tolerance.”

I peer at her across the desk. It’s like studying a statue. She doesn’t move; she rarely blinks. I keep my hands on the arms of my chair, my chin up, my gaze holding hers. I let the moment stretch on like a piano key held down until the note fades away into silence.

When the silence feels thicker than cement I say, “I think we both know what zero tolerance means.”

She continues to stare at me and starts tapping her fingernails on the desk.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

It’s like her nails are dancing with the ticking of the clock. They merge and spin off into an eternal waltz.

She stops tapping. “Tell me what zero tolerance means.”

I take a deep breath. “Mrs. Owens, is there a reason why you’re talking to me like I’m an imbecile?”

She doesn’t move or flinch; she just continues to stare at me. I’m beginning to feel like a goldfish. “Why don’t you tell me about what happened in gym today.”

I lean forward. “I’m glad you brought that up, because I’ve been thinking about filing a complaint. For some reason gym largely consists of me running laps. I have no idea why Coach
Dinatelli has singled me out for this abuse. I think it may have something to do with me having lived in England. He also insists upon calling me
Teacup
. I’m worried about the psychological scars his cruelty may leave upon me.”

“Stop it!”

Mrs. Owens is suddenly standing behind her desk. That dangerous undercurrent I detected before has finally risen to the surface.

“Mr. Saron, I have had enough of your shenanigans.”

“What exactly does ‘shenanigans’ mean? It sounds like an Irish pub.”

She’s quickly around her desk and for the briefest of moments it looks like she’s about to hit me. Which would be just about perfect, assaulted for violating a zero-tolerance violence policy.

Instead she storms past me, opens her door, and barks, “Follow me!”

We march together through the main office. All activity freezes, conversations cease, everyone watches us. The room seems to fall into a collective coma. When we pass through the door into the hall I hear the room slowly coming back to life behind us.

Mrs. Owens is walking quickly. I have to lengthen my stride just to keep up with her. If she were moving any faster I’d have to break into something between speed walking and a jog.

I follow her into the nurse’s office. Mrs. Casey, the school nurse, quickly stands up. It’s obvious that Mrs. Owens intimidates
her; you can tell by the nervous look in her eye, the quick, flighty movements of her hands, and the way she keeps rocking back and forth in her shoes.

“Mrs. Casey.”

She timidly runs her hand through her hair. “Yes?”

“How are the boys doing?”

I look around the office. Pogo Stick and his friends are all lying on cots. They seem to be sluggish but are basically doing well. They’re all somewhat bandaged; Pogo has a broken nose and the big kid’s arm is in a sling. Frank’s sitting in the corner in a chair; I didn’t expect to see him here.

“Ah, they seem okay. Nothing broken…oh, except for Billy’s nose, which I taped tight; there’s not much more I can do for it here. I’ve notified their parents and strongly suggested they all visit the hospital for more thorough examinations.”

Mrs. Owens lets out a long sigh and we enter into another one of her prolonged bouts of silence. I can tell she’s making everyone, including Mrs. Casey, very anxious and I find myself beginning to admire her interrogation technique. I can see how it would be effective.

She turns to me. “Mr. Saron, do you have something you would like to say to your friends?”

I look over at Frank, and raise my eyebrow slightly. He gives me a quick shake of his head. Does that mean they didn’t tell her what happened? It’s worth a try. I offer Pogo Stick my best inno
cent look and say, “What happened to you guys?”

Mrs. Owens snaps, “Oh, please. We all know what’s going on here! Mr. Dinatelli informs me that you did this to them.”

“Did what to them?”

“You need to just stop this.”

I hold up my hands. “Stop what?”

She glares at me. “This innocent routine.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about how you brutally assaulted these students.”

I point at my chest. “You think I did this?” I glance around the room like I’m counting. “You think I beat up seven guys?”

“I think you did and so does Mr. Dinatelli.”

I point at my face. “Do I look like I just fought with seven guys? That’s almost a baseball team. Look, there’s not a scratch on me.”

“Mr. Dinatelli said he heard fighting in the locker room. When he went inside to investigate he found these guys on the floor and you walking out the door.”

“All that proves is that I walked out of the gym. I could have told you that.”

She looks at me, shakes her head, then walks over to Pogo Stick. She softens her voice. The sudden transformation is jarring, like downshifting on the highway. “How are you feeling?”

“Been better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need anything, Billy?”

“No, I’ll be all right.”

She smiles, or should I say she tries to smile. You can tell it’s not something she’s used to doing. “Listen, Billy, I want you to tell me what happened today in the locker room. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He looks over at me. We make eye contact. There’s something there. It’s not fear, guilt, or hate; it’s something else. I can’t get a read on it.

“Well, it’s like this: John and I were standing on the bench seeing who could push who off first, then it kinda turned into which group could push the other group off the bench. Next thing I know, we’re all crashing to the hard tile floor together.”

Mrs. Owens’s head snaps upward. She seems very surprised by his answer. “Are you honestly trying to tell me this was just a simple case of roughhousing?”

“Roughhousing? Is that what you call it? We just call it ‘bench wars.’”

Mrs. Owens’s lips get really tight. I can see the anger in her eyes. I wonder if Pogo Stick and the other guys can see it too. “So you’re telling me that Cody Saron had nothing to do with this, that he didn’t beat you boys up?”

“Why would he beat us up? Never mind that,
how
would he beat us up? Like he said, there’s seven of us. Is he some kind of superhero?”

Mrs. Owens looks around the room. “Is that right? Are you all telling me you got hurt playing something called
bench wars
?

Everyone nods their heads.

“I don’t buy it. Mr. Dinatelli doesn’t buy it and anyone who even
glances
at your injuries isn’t going to buy it. Now, who’s going to step forward and tell me what really happened?”

The room remains quiet. I glance around. Everyone avoids eye contact with me. Mrs. Casey is nervously playing with her stethoscope.

Mrs. Owens lets out a lungful of air. It’s like she’s been holding her breath. “If that’s your story, let me remind you that we don’t permit that kind of reckless behavior in our school. Two weeks detention for the lot of you.”

I glare at Pogo Stick until I get his attention, then point my chin at Frank, urging him to do the right thing.

“Mrs. Owens, Frank wasn’t part of the game. He was just getting dressed. We were playing three against three.”

She considers this new information. “Frank.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You should have stepped forward. I think you know what I’m talking about. Three days detention for you.”

“But I didn’t do anything!”

“Do you want to make it four days?”

“No, ma’am.”

She turns and walks out the door. Just like that, she’s gone. I
thought for sure I was going to be kicked out of school. I didn’t even get detention. I can’t believe it.

I walk over to Pogo Stick and hold out my hand. At first he just looks at it, then he reaches up and gives it a little slap.

I look over at Mrs. Casey. She’s at her desk filling out some paperwork. I lower my voice so she can’t hear me. “Thank you.”

He smiles. “No problem, but it’s gonna cost you.”

“What?”

“We want you to teach us how to fight like that.”

I nod my head and smile back at him. “No problem.”